


This isn't revenge

by LastKissofDamaris



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 23:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17876501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastKissofDamaris/pseuds/LastKissofDamaris
Summary: Sewell is broken, and Murphy isn't the man he used to be.





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn't often that corrections officer George Sewell found himself wide-eyed and speechless, but as he stood gaping at the 'dead' man lounging quite comfortably in his living room, Sewell found speech far from forthcoming.

  
Murphy Pendleton rested back against the sofa, stretching out his long, lean legs as if he had all the time in the world and had never felt the burden of worry and strife upon his broad shoulders. “You look surprised to see me... _cupcake_.” said Pendleton, with an infuriatingly calm lilt to his tone.

  
Sewell was certainly something about all of this, but he found that 'surprised' didn't quite cover the breadth of what he was feeling. When he had opened his front door not two minutes ago-after a gruelling shift at the penitentiary-he had had plans for a nice long soak in the bath, and a brainless slump in front of the television with a pizza and some awful late-night movie. What he hadn't planned on doing upon entering, was having a conversation with a man who had been declared dead over three years ago. For a moment, Sewell had thought that he might have been hallucinating, but then Pendleton had spoken, his echoing of the pet-name 'cupcake' laced with too much contempt to be imaginary.

  
“You not going to say anything? I'm hurt here... I thought you and I had a special something going on back at the-”

  
“Get the fuck outta my house!” was the first thing that tumbled from Sewell's mouth. It was an octave higher than usual, and he didn't much appreciate the touch of panic laced within the words, or the way his lower lip trembled towards the end, but they were out and he meant them.

 

Murphy just stared; his green eyes wide and-

  
- _the fucker was laughing at him_ -

  
Sewell grit his teeth, and told his brain to calm the fuck down, and his lungs to take a fucking breath deep enough to steady his rocky nerves. As he tried to compose himself, Murphy smirked and reclined against the cushions. With a languorous stretch, he settled his feet atop the coffee table, knocking several coasters to the carpet in the process.

  
Sewell glared, which was another thing he very rarely did; he was a man of action and control, not a man who hid behind withering glances. But he was feeling well and truly lost, fear settling into his limbs like dead weights. He had never been frightened of Pendleton during the man's stay at the penitentiary (the guy had been a pushover), but there was something dangerous about the look in his eyes as he challenged Sewell to enact his order. If there was one thing Sewell hated more than having no control in a situation, it was that feeling of being on the losing side. And right now, that's exactly where he was; this man smirking across at him was not the same pushover he had coerced and framed back at the prison, this man was someone else entirely.

  
“It took me a long time to find you, officer Sewell. The first two years I figured I'd lay low, keep myself out of trouble until everyone forgot I ever existed. I was terrified that I'd pass someone who recognised me, I didn't want to go back to jail. So, for over a year I barely left the place I was staying at, I always went out at night, walked ten miles just to get to the nearest store and stock up... That was pretty grim during the winter, I'll tell you.”

  
Sewell pursed his lips; he wanted to say something, to ask why the fuck Murphy was telling him all of this, but his voice had fled the scene.

  
“After a while I eventually accepted that, well, that _everyone else_ had accepted that I was dead, that I'd died trying to escape from the bus. What was it they said about my body?” He looked conflicted for a moment, then his eyes brightened and he smiled to himself, “Oh yeah, that was it; that I'd stumbled over a cliff trying to evade capture... Everyone thinks my corpse is still out there somewhere, rotting in some river.”

  
Pendelton looked down at his hands, a flicker of _something_ clouding his eyes as they roved the expanse of rough skin and scars.

  
“I've visited my own grave, you know. They buried an empty casket. It felt _weird_ looking at my own headstone.”

  
Sewell shifted, trying to ease the whining of muscle down his left leg-he hadn't been so good on his feet since... since Coleridge's bitch had-

  
“I sometimes wish I had died. Well no, no, that's not quite right. I used to sometimes wish I had died, but then I'd think about you and how bullshit it was for me to feel that way when I knew you'd be perfectly happy, getting on with your life, not even caring about the sick shit you've done. So I guess I have you to thank for giving me a new lease on life, _George_ , but it's the least you could have done, right? After fucking it up in the first place.”

  
Sewell stiffened. “Oh, I'm sorry, was it my fault your kid got killed? You gonna blame me for that? I'd say you were pretty fuckin' down in the dumps when you stole off with that patrol car. Tell me something, Murph; what were you hoping for most, to get arrested so you could off Napier, or to crash and burn?” The only indication Sewell got that he had struck a nerve was the tiny jolt of tension in Murphy's jaw; it wasn't much, but it was enough to make him feel a little less of a coward for just standing there, and allowing this man to continue.

  
Murphy tore his gaze away from his hands to fix it on Sewell, who felt himself further emasculated when his hands reached out of their own accord to clutch at the door handle pressing into the small of his back; he was eternally grateful when his fingers did nothing more than rest atop the cool brass.

  
“Carol puts flowers on my grave every other weekend.” said Murphy after a moment-

  
-Christ, had he always been this talkative? Sewell remembered that getting him to talk back at the prison had been like pulling teeth.

  
“I've watched her a couple of times, just... just to see how she looks, ya know, if she looks well. But it's like watching a stranger; I don't feel anything for her now, it's just some lingering sense of loyalty. It kind of hit hard when I realised that; I thought I still loved her, but now I just see her and she could be anyone.

  
“Honestly, I thought, after-after Charlie, that she would never forgive me, that she'd hate me for the rest of her life. I know she blames me for what happened to him, I still blame me; if I'd have been paying attention Napier wouldn't have-” he clutched at his hair suddenly and-ah, there was the Murphy Sewell knew, then he was gone and this stranger was back, looking cold, collected and...

 

Sewell didn't like that look at all.

  
“Tell me, cupcake,” said Murphy, the corners of his mouth twisting sharply up, “have you missed me all this time?”

  
Sewell flushed at the implication, before immediately righting himself and fixing Murphy with his most withering glare. His higher brain functions still hadn't kicked in and pumped him full of the get-up-and-go attitude he had perfected over the years, but he figured he'd be O.K so long as he had a quick exit at his back and Murphy was at least a few feet away from him.

  
Sewell realised, after a moment, that Murphy was actually waiting for a response to his question (colour me surprised), and-already feeling well and truly emasculated by this point, Sewell needed to earn a few points back-so he accepted that little challenge in Murphy's eyes and returned a smirk of his own. “All this time, Princess,” he leered.

  
Murphy flashed him a grin in response, looking suspiciously pleased. He shifted awkwardly across the cushions of the sofa, before patting a hand down against the newly relinquished space. His shit-eating grin only broadened when Sewell failed to move from his spot at the door. “Take a seat,” he said, “I bet you've had a long day, full of bribes and beatings. You must be exhausted, officer.” He patted the empty spot again, goading him.

  
In a move he suspected he might very well regret later on, Sewell allowed his wounded sense of male pride to guide him over to where Murphy sat. He relished towering above his seated frame for a moment, before shifting over to the opposite side, as far away from the man as he could get without sitting on the arm. It felt good to lean back against the cushions; it _had_ been a long day, and his legs were glad for the respite.

  
“So, what do you want, Pendleton?” demanded Sewell once he was comfortable.

  
Murphy studied him from across the vacant seat between them, an odd, almost confused look on his face. “To chat,” he muttered, “didn't I already say that?”

  
Sewell fumed, and found his grip on the arm-rest tightening to the point of blanching his strained knuckles white. “Cut the bullshit, Murph!” he seethed, “You came here to get some sort of comeuppance for Coleridge, didn't you? Well, I'm afraid you're a little late to the party on that one, _Sugar_ ; daddy's girl had a pretty good go at it, and I'm betting your imagination isn't quite as creative as hers was.”

  
The springs in the furniture squawked in protest as Murphy sidled closer. Sewell continued to grip the arm-rest, willing himself to stay put, to hold on to what was left of his dignity, and not freak the fuck out and run. Because right now, he was struggling to deal with that niggling fear spreading like wildfire through every part of him. He flinched when their thighs brushed, but kept his eyes forward; he wasn't about to let on how nervous he was.

  
“I'm sure you got _exactly_ what you deserved, Sewell,” said Murphy, his voice low and dangerous, “You killed a good man, you framed _me_ for it. I went through fucking hell all because of you and your need to be at the fucking top--”

  
“So come on then!” yelled Sewell as he turned to his right to face him. Murphy was leaning far closer than what was decent, but Sewell willed the surprise away from his face, keeping his expression dark and threatening as he fixed gazes with him. “Come on, if that's why you're here. But I tell you fuckin' now, kid, I'll give as good as I fuckin' get.”

  
For a brief instant, Murphy looked unsure of himself, his face a ghostly echo of the way it had looked back at the penitentiary; soft and yielding, vulnerable. But then the moment shattered, and he looked as wild and as dangerous as any man Sewell had seen during his rounds at the prison. “I thought it was,” he said, his breath ghosting over Sewell's steadily flushing face, “I thought I'd know what to do when I got here. I wanted to tell you exactly what kind of a pathetic _fuck_ I think you are.”

  
He sighed, the force of it dislodging a few of Sewell's carefully slicked locks. “I ran through so many ideas on my way here, you know... I was going to beat the living crap out of you, leave you in a mess like you did with Frank. I was going to make you beg me to get you help-”

  
Sewell scoffed, as if that would ever happen.

  
“I'm not the man I used to be. I could do it, to you, I could hurt you, I think I could even kill you, Sewell. I was soft when you handed me Napier; I should have been the one to kill him, but I'm not that person any more...

  
“Someone once told me that revenge is a long, and treacherous road. She asked me where I thought it would end, and for a time, I didn't know. I just wanted to hurt the people who had wronged me; I still do. I want to hurt you, Sewell. I want to hurt you so badly, but what kind of a man would I turn into?”

  
Sewell took a deep breath. He couldn't tear his eyes away from this stranger sat in front of him, leaning so close. He realised that he wanted to listen to him, he wanted to hear every little thing that he had to say, even if it came with the risk of snuffing his own existence.

  
Murphy brushed a hand through his shaggy hair, sighing again. He trained his eyes on Sewell, keeping him rooted under a stony gaze. “I don't want to be a man I'm afraid of,” he admitted after a moment, “I don't want to be capable of killing someone. Anne got enough revenge for the both of us that night. I came here to get my own back, but I'm not going to carry on down that path, I refuse. Besides, you're not the man you used to be, not after--”

  
Sewell was not about to take a slur like that lying down. Quicker than Murphy probably thought him capable of, Sewell grabbed at his shirt and shoved him back against the opposite arm-rest. He snarled, feeling well and truly pissed by this point; he could take a great deal of things before his patience wore thin, but he wouldn't sit back and accept it when his masculinity was challenged.

  
“I'm still man enough to beat the living shit out of you, _Sweetheart_!” he hissed.

  
Instead of gracing Sewell's wounded ego with a look of panic, Murphy just smirked as he let his head fall back against the arm-rest, exposing the delicate line of his throat. “That's not what I heard,” he murmured, tongue flicking out to lick at his lips, “I heard Anne's little group of con-friends made you their bitch that night.”

  
Sewell's stomach plummeted; if Pendleton knew about that, then who else knew about it? The cons at the penitentiary? Maybe they had been laughing at him this entire time, maybe the increase in cat-calls over the last few years had been a result of this knowledge. What about his co-workers? He had never bothered to make friends at work, he didn't have the patience for anyone besides himself. Could that bitch have spread the news around? The final nail in the coffin as his carefully built-up reputation crumbled about him.

  
Sewell was jolted from his thoughts by the brush of a hand against the side of his face. He jerked away from the touch as if burned. “You a fucking fag now, Murph?” he sneered.

  
Murphy continued to smirk, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes. “Heard you moaned like a whore when they all took you--”

  
The words had already been spilled, the damage was done (maybe this was the final nail), but Sewell still felt a satisfying little jump as his fist connected with the fragile cartilage of Murphy's narrow nose.


	2. Chapter 2

The wall was harsh and unforgiving as Murphy shoved him against it in retaliation. His nose looked a mess, spots of blood staining the cream carpet in his wake as he launched himself across the space to press his palms against flailing limbs, pinning wrists back and squeezing. Sewell spat and cursed, struggling wildly against the steady easing of weight keeping him flush with the wall. He caught sight of Murphy's eyes; dark and threatening, and-shit, Sewell knew he had seen that look before, it was the exact same expression the cons had been wearing the night Anne had forced him into their midst at gunpoint. He struggled again, fighting against the pain of his own body as it balefully reminded him of never-to-be-healed injuries sustained at the hands of that bitch's ex-cons.

When it became clear that Murphy's grip on his wrists wasn't letting up any time soon, Sewell switched tactics and kicked out his legs, trying to weave his foot between their two bodies to land a blow low enough to make even the hardest men weep. Murphy just crowded in closer, his thighs coming to rest against Sewell's own. The proximity was indecent, but he couldn't deny the little thrill that cut through his panic levels when Murphy insinuated a leg between his trembling thighs and brushed _up_.

“Will you stop struggling?” hissed Murphy, low and obscene in Sewell's ear. He brushed his leg up again, and any notion that it was just an innocent attempt to disable his kicking flew out the window. Murphy was _trying_ to get him off. Sewell didn't know which was worst; the fact that he didn't actually want to push him away now that the first stirrings of pleasure were bubbling in the pit of his stomach, or that he _couldn't_ push him away. He tried not to dwell on thoughts of age finally rearing its ugly head, and hands poised to break, and concentrated instead on the heat coiling pleasantly tighter in his lower regions as that thigh continued to rub against him.

Sewell swallowed a groan, his eyes slipping closed as he just let himself _feel_. In the darkness behind shut lids, he could pretend a great number of things to help himself feel better about the position he was in; he pictured a tall, athletic woman with dark hair, and a mouth wide and ready for sucking cock; he let himself imagine that the person rutting their leg against him was some big-titted porn star and--

“Shit,” gasped Sewell when that leg withdrew from between his clenched thighs and was replaced with a hand that gently gripped him through the fabric of his uniform. All thoughts of porn stars and old girlfriends melted into the image of Pendleton, looking decidedly pleased with himself. Sewell opened his eyes. Fuck it, he thought; he was about the right age for a mid-life crisis anyway, and should he feel decidedly sick to the stomach come the morning, he'd just blame this entire encounter on a moment of madness.

Deft fingers pulled down on the zipper of his trousers, before moving to shirt-tails and pulling up and out, fingertips ghosting over tanned flesh and then pressing more insistently against the waistband of the cotton shorts. They rested flat, all heat and promise. Sewell squirmed under that palm, willing it lower.

“You a fag now, Sewell..?” whispered Murphy. Sewell was tempted to remind the fucker of just who had started this, and whose hand currently rested just an inch away from his straining cock, but he wasn't about to risk ruining whatever this was; not when it had been too long since another had touched him (he refused to acknowledge that night with the cons). Sure, getting yourself off is all well and good, but it's nothing compared to the attention of another. So-for perhaps only the fourth or fifth time in his life-he buttoned it, and allowed Murphy his moment of smug assurance.

Finally, that hand dipped below his waistband, and Sewell couldn't contain the breathless groan when he was exposed; his trousers and boxers slipping past his hips to pool around his ankles with only a little encouragement. He followed Pendleton's line of sight to take a look at himself. Fuck, he was harder than he'd been in years-the thought made him cringe.

“Not bad,” said Murphy with a grin, “ not bad at all.” He leaned forward, a hand coming to cup Sewell's face and gently tilt it. Sewell knew what he was doing, and he was having none of that. He placed his own hands against Pendleton's chest (Jesus, he was rock solid), pushing back. Murphy caught his eyes, looking confused. “What?” he asked.

“Don't,” said Sewell. Murphy still looked oblivious- -which was sort of cute-No, not cute. 'Cute' is not a word a man my age uses-

“I ain't fuckin' kissing you, kid.” he hissed.

“I had my hand on your dick not thirty seconds ago,” said Murphy slowly, “that's OK, is it? I can grab you by the balls, but kissing is too what? Too gay?”

Sewell frowned. The guy had a point, but that didn't mean he was going to concede. “Why don't you just get that hand back where it belongs-and by that I _do_ mean on my cock-and keep the sissy bullshit to yourself.” he warned.

If Murphy was at all annoyed, he didn't show it. He let his hand drop from Sewell's face to rest upon a badly scarred hip, his other hand-

Sewell whined low in his throat when those fingers grasped him, giving an experimental first tug. He fisted at Murphy's shirt, resisting the urge to just let his head rest against that solid chest and simply take comfort in the novelty of being held. The grip on him tightened as Murphy started to build up a rhythm; his palm was rough and cold, creating a friction that was, if nothing else, certainly interesting.

“You always this noisy, officer Sewell?” whispered Murphy into his ear.

Sewell fought the urge to throttle the smug bastard, and concentrated instead on trying not to sound like a fifteen-year-old virgin receiving his first hand job. He jolted when he felt a tongue slide along the shell of his ear; the action too intimate for his liking, but pleasurable all the same. The hand on his cock started to pick up a more agreeable pace as Murphy's other hand slipped past the ruin of scar tissue to disappear under Sewell's work shirt, roaming the expanse of his chest. Fingers found a nipple and pinched. Sewell grit his teeth to keep from gasping, but a desperate exhale managed to weave its way free. He hadn't been explored in so long, it all felt so new, so agreeable.

Sewell realised he wanted Murphy closer; he wanted the man's chest pressed against his own, he wanted to feel-for lack of a better word- _trapped_ under him. He ran his hands around to the small of the man's back, encouraging him forwards until they were flush against one another. Murphy's own tented excitement brushed against Sewell's inner thigh, sparking an entirely male twinge of sympathy for the poor, neglected appendage.

“Want me to give you a hand there, sugar..?” he murmured, immediately hating how breathless he sounded. Murphy's cheeks burned as he dropped his eyes, gaze travelling past the weeping cock in his hand, to his own tented trousers. He chewed at his lip, looking every bit as indecisive and meek as he had done when Sewell had first approached him all those years ago in order to offer him Napier. When no response was forthcoming, Sewell's patience snapped and he reached for the man's belt, only to have his hands slapped away. He opened his mouth to protest, but a sudden brush of a finger behind his balls choked off his voice until all that came out was a strangled whimper. He glared, fisting the front of Murphy's shirt so tightly that his knuckles looked set to pop.

Murphy's look of triumph only grew brighter as he ghosted that finger back and forth along the sensitive slip of skin, inching closer and closer to--

“Fuck!” hissed Sewell as his balls tightened and his stomach twisted, and he spent every last bit of himself into that firm grip that just carried on pumping him through it. When he was done, he glanced down at the mess, scowling when he saw that most of it had somehow managed to splash the hem of his blue work shirt. Although part of it-and he couldn't help but grin-had splashed onto the crotch of Murphy's trousers.

“I never had you pegged as the noisy type,” said Murphy as he relinquished his hold on the softening cock. He sounded ridiculously calm to say he was pitching a tent comparable in size to The Empire State Building. No man with that big of a boner should sound quite so sure of themselves; Sewell decided to teach the prick a lesson (now that his own dick had been taken care), he placed his palms upon that strong torso and _shoved_ with all the strength he had.

It was amusing for all of one second as Murphy flailed back towards the sofa, but then his hand clutched, taking a firm hold of Sewell's shirt tail, and he too went sprawling across the room, unable to catch his footing with his trousers and underwear still pooled around his ankles. The two of them collapsed gracelessly against the cushions with annoyed grunts. Sewell quickly made to get up, to get decent, but that hand jerked out again, pulling him back until he found himself pinned, with a very solid body now nestled between his legs and... rutting.

So maybe he wasn't the only one acting like a horny teenager. That was something, at least.

“Get the fuck offa me,” he warned.

Murphy just shook his head, rocking his hips with the kind of eagerness not often seen out of virginhood. He placed his hands against Sewell's inner thighs, gently easing his legs apart to accommodate his bulk. Sewell threw him a dark look, which immediately twisted into a look of discomfort when he carried on pushing; there were a lot of things his body couldn't take these days, and spreading his legs as wide as a God-damned fucking hooker was certainly one of them.

“I said to get the fuck off of me, Murphy.” he hissed.

“And I said _no_.” was the icy retort.

Sewell surged up, his fist aiming for an already bloodied nose, but Murphy was quicker than that docile face would have one believe, and he easily caught it in his palm. Gripping tightly, he pushed it back against the cushions above Sewell's head. And then when Sewell attempted to hook him under the chin, he took care of that hand too. After that, Sewell was left in a rather sorry state with his arms trapped at the sides of his head, his breath coming in quick, pained gasps; he wasn't sure if it was age catching up with him and bringing with it its ailments, or if Murphy was just stronger than he looked, but no matter how hard to tried to break free, he couldn't do more than lift his limbs an inch before they were forced back into the furniture.

Trying to kick his legs just left him exhausted and trembling, so he settled for writhing, hoping that it'd be enough to throw Pendleton off balance if he gave it enough force. But that movement only brought forth a pleased groan.

Sewell collapsed against the cushions, turning his head to the side. A bead of sweat slipped down his flushed face; he was well and truly spent, and the idea of being helpless before this man was more terrifying than he liked to admit. The only thing he had left was his mouth. “You're a sick fucker,” he spat. “Model prisoner my fuckin' ass.”

Murphy rocked his hips forward again and-damnit-Sewell found himself echoing the pleased groan.

“I don't have good men beaten to death.” said Murphy, but his voice lacked any real conviction.

Sewell found himself jerking to meet each of Murphy's thrusts. “Napier a good man, was he?” he gasped. Murphy's hands tightened around his wrists, warning him, but Sewell went on regardless, “Anyway, sugar-oh, fuck-Frankie didn't-” he whined, the friction becoming a little too much for the parts of him that had become pleasure sensitive upon his earlier release, “ _Frank_ didn't die right away... did he..?”

Murphy's retaliation was instantaneous; letting go of Sewell's wrists, he wrapped his hands tight around his slender throat instead, his thumbs pressing harshly into the bob of his Adam's apple. Sewell's only reaction was the quirk of his brows, and the subtle twist of his lips. “I may have misheard earlier...” he murmured, “but I thought this wasn't about revenge?”

Murphy tightened his grip, and finally there was a look on his face that Sewell could appreciate, a look that told him he could gain control of this situation if he played his cards right. Almost tenderly, he guided his hands to Murphy's face, cupping it. He couldn't help but appreciate the distinctly male texture beneath his palms, and that little flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he brushed his thumb against stubble and rough skin.

Sewell grinned. “What do you say we keep Frank and Napier out of the conversation, and I... _help_ you with that?” At this, he cast his eyes down to Murphy's cock, still trapped behind all of that fabric and desperate for release.


	3. Chapter 3

“What are you planning?” asked Murphy, his eyes so ablaze with mistrust that it was almost tangible.

Sewell cocked his head to the side, “What the fuck are you talking about, sugar?” he retorted. Pendleton's hands gave a very obvious squeeze around his throat, fingers trembling with a barely restrained urge to just crush that flesh until it became a ruined pulp of torn ligament and violent crimson.

“You've got that look on your face,” he said after a deliberate pause in which Sewell tried to accommodate his breathing to that tight, restrictive hold across his wind-pipe. And yet, despite the obvious peril he was facing-staring up into those dark, threatening eyes-Sewell found himself oddly at ease for the first time in a very long while.

“What look?” he managed to croak.

“ _That_ look,” spat Murphy, as though it was as obvious as the sun on a clear day, “that scheming look; the look you wear whenever you're striking up a dodgy deal; the look that means you're thinking of doing something where only you benefit. _That_ look.”

Sewell rolled his eyes. He thought about telling Murphy that if he did indeed have a plan, that he'd have put it into action already, instead of just laying there and allowing him to slowly cut off his ability to breathe. The only thing Sewell _did_ have was a possible advantage that he could play if Murphy continued to lose his temper; he knew from past experience that the guy was clumsy-no, that's too much of an understatement-he was downright _stupid_ when he let his anger get the better of him. Sewell figured he would keep his eyes out for that opening and only then would he decide what to do.

OK, that was somewhat of a plan, but it wasn't exactly polished enough to be worthy of such a title, so Sewell decided to keep it to himself, and said instead, “Jesus Christ, sugar, I'm not _plotting_ anything, well... except getting you off, but I think that'd be _you_ benefiting from that. So, how about you take your fuckin' hands from around my throat, and I jack you off? Then, you can get out of my house, I can eat my pizza, watch my film, and pretend that none of this ever happened...

“That sound good to you, kid?”

Sewell was beyond surprised when Murphy relinquished his hold just like that; he had expected some kind of parting squeeze, or a verbal warning about 'not trying anything', but no, the guy let go without issue and just sat back on his heels. He still looked suspicious, but his anger had all but disappeared (which put Sewell right back to square one, he had lost his trump card-this didn't worry him nearly as much as it should have).

Murphy regarded Sewell for a moment, watching him as he struggled to sit up and a flicker of discomfort twisted his face before melting away into that perpetually smug look he was so well-known for. “You gonna get undressed or what?” asked Sewell once he had righted himself. Murphy looked down at himself, at the way his cock was straining against the front of his trousers. He didn't really know how he felt about the notion of Sewell putting his hands on him; it seemed... off, _sordid_. He wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't minded putting his own hands on Sewell; it was a subject he'd rather not dwell on too much. Regardless, he was less willing to have the favour returned than he had been to offer it in the first place.

“Kid, I don't got all fuckin' night! Do you want me to help you out or not?” asked Sewell, before glancing down at his wristwatch and then back, “It's almost eleven, and my movie starts at quarter past; if you're not on your way out of here by then, shit's gonna go down.”

“What film are you so eager to watch?” asked Murphy, finding himself suddenly curious. Sewell threw his arms up, “Argh,” he spat, “what does it matter! Just let me jack you off or get the fuck out of my house!”

Murphy said nothing.

And nor, for a while, did Sewell.

They stared at each other for a long, _long_ moment.

Sewell felt his jaw twitch; he was going to kill the bastard. He was going to rip the fucker's head right off, then shove it down the toilet, and--

“I just want to know what you're so excited about seeing,” said Murphy.

“How can you sit there with-with _that_ -” at this, Sewell pointed to the bulge in Murphy's trousers, “-and just not want to get rid of it. Do you not feel the fuckin' thing? Is that it?”

“Of course I feel it, “snapped Murphy. A hand twitched unconsciously towards it before he reeled it back in and let it flop down at his hip. “I just, it's not urgent... not really.”

“And knowing what film I want to watch _is_?”

Murphy shrugged.

“Fine. Fine, if that's what it fuckin' takes, all right. I'm watching _The Thing_.”

The corner of Murphy's lips curved up. “Good movie,” he muttered.

“You ain't stayin' to watch it with me,” said Sewell quickly.

“Don't worry, _sugar_ , I won't bother you after...” He motioned to his crotch and-finally-started to unbuckle his belt. As he readied himself, Sewell reached down to his ankles to pull his own gear back up his hips. He felt instantly better once he was covered.

“You better not try anything,” said Murphy, the suspicion back on his face and multiplied. Sewell opened his mouth to form a response, but he made the mistake of looking down, and the sight just left him gaping like a fish; Pendleton was hard enough that it hurt just to look at it-the guy must have nerves of fuckin' steel to just sit there and chat away with that thing stashed down the front of his trousers.

“Not bad,” said Sewell after a pause, echoing Murphy's earlier comment, “not bad at all.”

As Murphy reclined against the cushions, Sewell got into position across his lap, letting his legs fall on either side of Pendleton's strong thighs. It was uncharacteristically intimate, but Sewell found himself wanting to see every detail on the man's face as he got him off, so he tolerated the burn in his hips at the position (and the voice at the back of his head berating him for being such a woman), and reached down.

Murphy's hands flew to his hips at the first touch, and Sewell knew there and then that this wouldn't last that long.

It took a few experimental strokes before Sewell found a rhythm that had Murphy jutting his hips and expelling little gasps of desperate air (and the occasional muttered plea for him to 'keep going', and 'don't stop'). Those hands clutching at Sewell's hips unfurled and slipped instead to his ass, ushering his body closer. Again, Sewell knew exactly what Murphy was trying to do, only this time he didn't stop it.

Murphy tasted of Heineken and pizza.

Ham and pineapple pizza.

Murphy brought his hand up to the back of Sewell's head, ruffling the dark hair as he tried to angle him for a deeper kiss.

Ham and pineapple pizza. _His_ pizza?

Sewell broke away just as Murphy flicked his tongue out to explore his mouth. “Did you eat my fuckin' pizza, Pendleton?” he growled. Murphy's answering grin faltered when the grip on him tightened considerably. “I was-” he gasped and writhed when the hand stopped moving entirely, and just held him in that dangerous, potentially ball--crushing grip, “I was waiting a long time! I was-oh God-I was hungry.” He bit at his lip and tossed his head back, whining low in his throat, “Christ,” he pleaded, “I'll buy you another, just _please_!”

For some reason, Sewell found the theft of his pizza the most offensive act Murphy had committed all night; Friday was his day for a little indulgence; throughout the rest of the week, he stuck to a rather rigorous diet. Sure, he could always move the trash eating to tomorrow, but that would be breaking routine, and Sewell _despised_ breaking routine.

Murphy was grasping at his ass again, digging his fingers into the soft flesh in a kind of unspoken plea for him to continue. His hips hadn't stopped jutting, but the grip on his cock was too unforgiving to allow any kind of pleasure, and instead of alleviating the burn in his balls with each steady rock of his hips, Murphy was met with nothing.

“I oughta just leave you like this.” said Sewell.

Murphy's grip tightened on his backside and he shook his head, face flushed and pupils blown wide. “Don't,” he muttered, “I'm...” his cheeks burned bright, “I'm sorry I stole your pizza.”

Sewell grinned, very much enjoying the feeling of control returning to him. He gave Murphy a playful slap on the cheek. “You're lucky I'm not really a sadist in the bedroom, Murph, otherwise you'd be finishin' yourself off out in the streets!” Any response Murphy had in mind died in his throat when Sewell resumed that steady pace.

Sewell's earlier prediction had been entirely right; Murphy spent himself within a matter of minutes, tossing his head back against the cushions and groaning as his lower half stuttered and spasmed through the wave of aftershocks. Still feeling sore about his lack of junk food for the night, Sewell wiped the mess across Murphy's shirt, positively delighted when the man clucked his tongue and jerked away in obvious dismay. He left him to moan and gripe about it whilst he took care of washing his hands of what remained in the adjoining kitchen.

When he came back, Murphy was still muttering under his breath and glaring at the smears across his green shirt. His belt and trousers had been buckled up, leaving just the stains as a reminder of the debauchery that had taken place.

Sewell crossed his arms, and waited. When Murphy took note of him staring, he brushed a hand through his hair in an obvious display of nervousness (Sewell had gotten to read his character very well back at the prison), before promptly looking off to the side. “Uh, before I go, I just wanted to ask you something.” he said after a moment.

Sewell stole a quick glance down at his wristwatch: 11:09; time enough to hear the kid out. “You'd better make it snappy then, Princess.”

Murphy glanced at him. “Do you remember how we met?”

Sewell blanched; he didn't know what he had been expecting Murphy to ask him, but it certainly hadn't been that. He racked his brains, trying to recall, but the earliest memories he had of Pendleton were of gazing through the man's files and deciding that he could be a useful asset. He shook his head, “Can't say that I do.” he said.

Murphy frowned up at him, “It's important.” he said, and the delicate note of desperation in his voice was almost enough to make Sewell feel bad. _Almost_.

“Sorry, kid, I don't remember.”

With a sigh, Murphy got to his feet and approached the door. Sewell expected him to just walk through it without a second-glance, but he stopped short of grasping the handle and turned back to face him. “I was dragged off by Jack-Knife and his boys,” he started to explain, eyes downcast, “I knew what they were gonna do; I mean, obviously, you hear the stories about prison... so I fought as hard as I could, but I wasn't getting anywhere.”

Sewell swallowed the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. He didn't like that slow, encroaching feeling of-he didn't even know what it was, but it was spreading through his stomach like poison. “They had me over one of the workbenches before you came in.” His eyes grew hard as they locked on to Sewell's and held his gaze. “I remember the first time we met, because if it hadn't been for you, Sewell, then they would have had me and I wouldn't have been able to do a fucking thing to stop them. You came along, and they scattered.

“Then you asked if I wanted a cigarette and you walked me back to the yard.”

Murphy released a low, bitter laugh and reached back for the door-handle. “I actually thought you were OK; I didn't know anything about you at that point, and you made me believe that maybe I could get through prison life, that I could cope with it. Then, well, I soon found out that you're so far from O.K it's not even funny.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Sewell.

“I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Every time I think of Frank, I think of killing you; I think of wrapping my hands around your throat and just squeezing. But then when I think of that, I think back to how you helped me out during my first week, and you didn't ask me for anything in return. It wasn't something you did to get me on side so you could use me later, it was... it was something good.”

Sewell shook his head. “What are you trying to say, Murphy?”

“I'm not trying to say anything,” said Murphy with a shrug. “I just wanted you to know that I'd been thinking about that.” And with that, he opened the door and vanished into the bitter winter night.

For a long moment, Sewell just stood there, staring at the place Murphy had been standing, and wondering what the hell had just happened. Then he turned off the lights and headed up the stairs to his bedroom; fuck the movie, fuck this night, he just wanted to sleep. And when the morning came, he wanted to have convinced himself that all of this had been nothing more than a bad dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoaaa so! Hope you enjoyed this incredibly old fanfic. And the sequel to follow, which, after a six year hiatus, I recently continued writing haha.

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty old. Like six years old! Thought I'd start adding my FF stuff to this account. Sorry for any mistakes, probably missed a few things.


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